


wrapped up in books

by girljustdied



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: jess and rory read.  then don’t.





	wrapped up in books

“You’ve been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes,” his low voice not unlike the first jolt of coffee through her system on a dull, hazy morning.

And, well, that’s not her fault. It’s his. Him and his arm slung casually around her shoulders; his stupid thumb tracing patterns on her bare bicep while he somehow manages to focus intently on a creased copy of _Ask the Dust_.

“I have not,” she answers—she hopes convincingly, although honestly it’s doubtful. The fifty-first page of _Wuthering Heights_ is somehow completely foreign to her even though she’d read the novel once before it had been assigned for class.

“You have,” his eyes never leaving his own book. Turns a page with the corners of his mouth inching up. Infuriating.

“Fine, but only because you’ve been distracting me.” As soon as the words come out, she almost regrets them. But it’s hard to regret making his penetrating gaze immediately flit to hers like it does, so. Win some, lose some.

“Oh, really?” he’s careful to hold his page in the crease of the book even as he lowers it slightly. His tone could be construed as suggestive, which, well—

“Not like that.” Exactly like that, but— “I mean, you just kept moving your thumb, and I kept wondering if you were making letters or shapes or something,” she reaches up and touches the offending hand for reference. “Like a secret message. And you know I can’t resist a good occasion to use my decoding skills. A regular Nancy Drew, that’s me, really. Ask anyone.”

He purses his lips shut to keep from giving her the relief of his laughter, still holding onto his book.

“Roosevelt proposed to Eleanor that way, you know,” she rambles on, her heart skittering wildly in her chest. They should break up, her and Jess, they really should, because she’s not so sure she wants to be feeling like this all the time. All jacked up and scared and excited and only able to focus on stupid things like wanting to nibble on his left earlobe or argue with him about Mark Twain again. “Traced the words right into her palm!”

“Is that a fact?” his eyes bright and fond.

“Yes.” At least, she thinks so. She hopes he doesn’t Yahoo it, just in case. “Yes, it is. Historical fact.”

And then he’s kissing her, just like that, like all of the sudden with no transition or meaningful look to clue her in—nothing but his lips already soft and open against hers. His book dropping onto the floor with a completely satisfying thump.

It’s not a problem, though, because she’s sort of already there, too. Body craning to the side to face him better and head tilted awkwardly. Her free hand grips onto his shoulder for balance, the other holds onto her book for dear life. It bangs into the back of his head when she unthinkingly moves to sling that arm around his neck.

“All right, enough Heathcliff,” he tries to wrestle the book from her, his body pushing hers down into the couch in the process. “He’s rubbing off on you.”

He has no idea.

“Hey, I need to finish that before dinner tonight—” she gasps at the feeling of one of his legs running up between hers. “Hey, listen, mister, if you can’t respect my education, well, then—”

“You have no idea how much—”

His mouth latches onto her jawline and sucks teasingly, and it’s like he’s flicked a switch—her hand loosens on the book and it immediately meets the Fante on the carpet.

“Better,” he says when she uses her newly free hand to touch the nape of his neck. “Agreed?”

“Mmm,” she means to respond further, but ends up tangling her tongue with his instead.

It escalates quickly—it always sort of does with Jess. Her fingertips digging into his hair, his straying down from her face to grip her hips and shift her lower body against his. Makes her breath short, get trapped in her chest, and puff out in sharp exhales.

Rory likes to think things through. Really, that’s an understatement. But she can’t even count the number of times she might have accidentally ended up having sex with Jess. Because maybe she wanted to, because he was so—so—

This is pretty much the moment when Luke or her mom or pretty much every single denizen of Stars Hollow would burst in, forcing them to jump apart. Slow their speeding hearts.

Nothing. Just him and her and the couch in her living room.

Feels—she closes her eyes and grinds up against his thigh—feels like something building. Like he barely even has to touch her. He watches her thrust against him with hooded eyes, mouth slightly swollen with use.

“You look really sexy,” his voice like gravel.

And he wouldn’t say a word about pretty much anything—much less _that_ —if he didn’t mean it, so it makes her feel pretty damn bold.

“Oh, really?” She leans up and touches her mouth to his ear. Lets her teeth graze the soft, pliable skin of his earlobe.

“Yeah.”

He presses a heavy palm to the inside of her thigh, so she spreads her legs slightly without thinking it through. Rocks up against him again as he maneuvers his other leg between hers. And, very suddenly, she can feel him long and hard through his jeans. Can feel the length of him jutting out against hear as she grinds up, and down, and up again, seeking friction.

He groans into her neck, his hands digging up under her sweater and stopping just short of her breasts. Thumbs on the underwire of her bra.

“Jess,” she whines.

See, right there. She should be trying to slow this whole thing down, but instead she’s practically begging for something more.

“I keep waiting for like, Kirk to show up for some asinine reason—” his voice muffled and vibrating against her collar bone, hands slipping up just millimeters further.

“Ugh, no—no—no—don’t talk about—”

“As you wish,” his mouth open and wet over the fabric of her t-shirt, between her breasts.

She wriggles under him, the first signs of possible orgasm winding tight and low in her belly. Tries to get his thigh between hers again because she wants that stronger—safer—friction back, but the action makes him pull away slightly.

“No,” she protests, leaning up to kiss him and yanking him back to crush down into her with her hands balled in his sweater. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I thought—”

“Well, quit it.”

“Okay,” he sucks her lower lip between his with tantalizing slowness. Tucks his hands into the back pockets of her jeans to lift her against him more firmly and twist his body slightly like—oh. She continues the movement with him until she’s the one straddling him.

“Hey,” she pants against his mouth.

“Hey,” he cups her sex through her jeans.

It’s just the right amount of pressure, so she closes her eyes and rides his hand—comes with a tiny “oh, god” muffled into the firm line of his left shoulder.

They’re still for a few long, awkward minutes after, totally frozen in place until Jess finally reaches out to grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table. She leans up off him in confusion until he starts wiping up something thick and off-white from the inside of his jeans.

“Oh! Oh, wow, I didn’t—I mean it all just happened so fast—not that I mean you—” her mouth starts running away without her as it is wont to do, and a hot blush spreads across her cheeks.

“Look, I’m not an asexual Ken doll—like I’m sure Dean was—” he can’t seem to keep from putting in that dig at her ex, but seems really insecure about it barely a split-second after. Not that it matters, since he can’t seem to shut up and stop being insensitive, either— “And if that freaks you out, then—”

“It doesn’t freak me out. God. Give a girl a second to come down.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

She plays with his hands to keep her focus busy, “That was nice.”

“It was.”

“You’re really infuriating sometimes, you know that?” she tells him even though she knows that he does, you know, _know_. That’s the point. That’s what’s interesting, the way he always just digs right in. The way she completely gets it.

He takes her left hand and pries it open fully, grip gentle as he touches a fingertip to her palm. His eyes meet hers to gauge whether or not she’s paying attention. Like she could be doing anything else but trying to figure out what he’s started to trace in her skin—like it wasn’t what got them into this weird afterglow in the first place.

 _C-A-N_ , his gaze lowers again and he turns his hand over and swipes his knuckles against her to indicate the end of the word, _Y-O-U_ , another swipe, _R-E-A-D_ , a soft, teasing tingle ratchets up her arm, _T-H-I-S_?

“Oh, very romantic.” And she means to be mocking, she really does. But his responding grin is edged with a soft, secret shyness that’s doing strange things to her insides. Making them even more jelly-like.

“Yeah, well, Brontë doesn’t have a thing on me.”

“I bet that’s what all the other girls say, huh?”

He touches her bottom lip with the knuckle of his index finger. Just for a split-second. “Well, most don’t know Emily from Charlotte. So you’ve got a leg up there.”

“Lucky me.”

He shakes his head a little, gaze dipping downward. But still says a bit defiantly, “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying.”

“Me, too. Just seconds ago, even.”

A deep breath, and, “Okay, so that’s settled.”

“And?” she prods, tired of his reticence on the whole subject. Of them.

“I’m luckier.”


End file.
